Copperhead

by Bernard Cornwell

  Now, in the rainy darkness, de’Ath made certain that Starbuck had the false letter which the old man had concocted that afternoon. The letter, in a handwriting that imitated the block capitals of the document found in Webster’s hotel room, reported a massive concentration of rebel troops in Richmond. The letter was sewn into a waterproof oilcloth pouch that was concealed in the waistband of Starbuck’s trousers. “I have it, sir,” Starbuck said.

  “Then God be with you,” de’Ath said abruptly, and turned away.

  Starbuck guessed he would get no other farewell than that brief benediction and so he pulled Oliver Wendell Holmes’s coat around his shoulders, crammed on his slouch hat, and ran through the rain to the waiting carriage. He wore no weapons. He had abandoned carrying a sword after his first battle, he had left his rifle with Sergeant Truslow, and the fine ivory-handled revolver which he had taken from Ethan Ridley’s corpse at Manassas had been stolen while he was in prison. Starbuck would have liked to carry a revolver, but de’Ath had advised against it. “Your object is to get through the lines, not to be mistaken for an infiltrator. Go unarmed, keep your hands held high, and tell lies like a good lawyer.”

  “How does a lawyer lie?”

  “With passion, Mr. Starbuck, and with a self-inflicted belief, albeit temporary, that the facts he is reciting are the very stuff of God’s own truth. You have to believe in a lie, and the way to believe is to convince yourself that the lie is a shortcut to the good. If telling the truth will not help a client, then don’t tell the truth. The good is the client’s survival, the lie is the servant of the good. Your lies are the servants of the Confederacy’s survival, and I pray God you desire that survival as much as I do myself.”

  De’Ath’s Negro driver was on the coach’s box, swathed there in a multiplicity of coats and with his head covered by a canvas hood. “Where to, massa?” the man called.

  “Just go down Marshall. I’ll tell you when to stop,” Starbuck said, then climbed inside as the great vehicle lurched forward. The coach’s seats were of cracked hide and were leaking horsehair. Starbuck lit himself a cigar from the shielded lantern that dimly illuminated the coach’s interior, then he eased up one of the leather roller blinds. The coach’s progress was slow, for the coming of night had scarcely diminished the evacuation traffic. Starbuck waited till they had passed Thirteenth Street and then he pulled down the window and shouted at the driver to stop outside the Medical College of Virginia. He had deliberately stopped a good distance away from his destination so that the driver could not report to de’Ath which house he had visited.

  “Just wait here,” he ordered, then jumped down to the roadway and hurried two blocks down Marshall before turning up Twelfth Street. The house he wanted lay on the far side of Clay Street, a big house, one of the most lavish in all Richmond, and Starbuck slowed down as he approached the house for he was uncertain how best to approach this business.

  He understood well enough the trap that de’Ath was laying, but he was unwilling to let Adam walk into that trap. If indeed the traitor was Adam. Starbuck had no proof, only a suspicion that his erstwhile friend’s distaste for the war could easily have been transformed into betrayal, and that Adam’s friendship with James could easily have provided a means for that betrayal to be carried out.

  If, indeed, “betrayal” was the right word. Because if the spy was Adam, then he was only being loyal to the country of his birth, just as Starbuck was now being loyal to a friendship. That friendship might have been tested, it might even have been broken, but even so Starbuck could not cold-bloodedly allow the trap to be sprung. He would give Adam his warning.

  And so he crossed the street and climbed the steps of the Faulconer town house. He pulled the big brass handle and heard the house bell jangle deep in the servants’ quarters. Starbuck had lived in this house once, back when he had first come to Richmond and when Washington Faulconer had been his ally and not his enemy.

  The door opened. Polly, one of the maids, gaped at the soaking wet figure on the top step. “Mr. Starbuck?”

  “Hello, Polly. I was hoping young Mr. Faulconer was at home.”

  “He’s not here, massa,” Polly said, and then, as Starbuck moved to step in out of the rain, she raised a frightened hand to stop him.

  “It’s all right, Polly,” Starbuck tried to soothe her fears. “I just want to write a note and leave it here for Mr. Adam.”

  “No, massa.” Polly obstinately shook her head. “You’re not to be let in. Mr. Adam’s orders.”

  “Adam said that?” Starbuck would have believed it if the prohibition had come from Washington Faulconer, but not of Adam.

  “If you ever come, you’re to be turned away. Mr. Adam said so,” Polly insisted. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Polly,” Starbuck said. He looked past her to see that the pictures which had graced the famous curving staircase had all been taken down. There had been a fine portrait of Adam’s sister Anna on the wall facing the door, but now there was just a square of lighter-colored wallpaper. “Can you tell me where Mr. Adam is, Polly? I only want to talk with him. Nothing else.”

  “He’s not here, massa.” Polly tried to close the door, but then a new voice spoke from behind her.

  “Adam has been ordered back to the army,” the voice said. It was a woman’s voice and Starbuck peered into the shadowy recesses of the hall to see a dark, tall figure standing silhouetted in the doorway of the downstairs parlor.

  “I’m obliged to you, ma’am,” Starbuck said. “Is he with his father’s troops? Or with General Johnston?”

  “With General Johnston.” The speaker came out of the shadows and Starbuck saw it was Julia Gordon. He pulled off his hat. “It seems,” Julia went on, “that since Yorktown’s abandonment, it is a case of all hands to the pumps. Do you think we are about to be overrun by vengeful northerners, Mr. Starbuck?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Gordon.” The rain beat on his head and trickled down his cheeks.

  “Nor do I know. And Adam does not write to tell me, so it is all a great mystery. Why don’t you come in out of the rain?”

  “Because I’ve been forbidden to enter the house, Miss Gordon.”

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense. Let him in, Polly. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

  Polly hesitated, then grinned and opened the door wide. Starbuck stepped over the threshold, dripping water onto the plain dust-sheet that protected the hardwood floor by the front door. He let Polly take his coat and hat, which she draped over a stepladder that had been used to lift down the paintings. Almost everything was gone from the hall: the fine European furniture, the pictures, the Turkish rugs, even the splendid gilded chandelier that had hung in the staircase well from fifty feet of chain. “All of it sent packing to Faulconer Court House,” Julia said, seeing Starbuck gaze about the room. “General Faulconer believed his belongings would be safer in the country. Things must be truly desperate, don’t you think?”

  “The North has stopped recruiting soldiers,” Starbuck said, “if that denotes anything.”

  “Surely it denotes that we have lost?”

  Starbuck smiled. “Maybe we haven’t even begun to fight?”

  Julia liked the bravado and beckoned toward the lit parlor. “Come into the parlor so Polly doesn’t have to be terrified that someone will see you and report her to the General.” Julia led him into the downstairs parlor that was lit by two overhead gasoliers. Most of the furniture was gone, though the bookshelves were still crammed with volumes and a plain kitchen table stood next to some open crates. As Starbuck entered the familiar room he thought how odd it was to hear Washington Faulconer described as the General, yet so he was, and an even more powerful enemy because of it. “I’m sorting out the family’s books,” Julia said. “The General didn’t want to send all his volumes to the country, only the valuable ones, and he trusts me to tell him which those are.”

  “Aren’t they all valuable?”

  Julia shrugged. “Som
e nice bindings, perhaps, but most of the books are fairly commonplace.” She plucked one at random. “Motley’s Rise of the Dutch Republic? Hardly a rare volume, Mr. Starbuck. No, I’m putting aside the very best bindings, the books with especially fine plates, and a handful of others.”

  “You know about books?” Starbuck asked.

  “I know more about books than General Faulconer does,” Julia said with a hint of amusement. She was wearing a dress of dark blue cotton with a high collar and looped panniers at her waist. The arms of the dress were protected by a pair of white linen dust sleeves. Her black hair was piled high and pinned, though some strands had come loose to hang over her forehead. She looked, Starbuck thought, oddly attractive, and he felt guilty for that thought. This was Adam’s fiancee.

  “You’re not removing yourself to safety, Miss Gordon?” Starbuck asked her.

  “Where could we go? My mother’s people live in Petersburg, but if Richmond falls then Petersburg cannot be far behind. The General murmured an invitation for us to take ourselves to Faulconer Court House, but he made no provisions for our furniture and poor Mr. Samworth’s hearses have been taken for the army’s use, which means our belongings must stay here. And where Mother’s furniture is, there is Mother, so it seems that for the lack of a cart we must stay in Richmond and endure the Yankee invasion. If it happens.” She glanced at a plain tin-cased clock that looked as if it had been borrowed from the servants’ quarters. “I don’t have long, Mr. Starbuck, as my father is coming to escort me home in a few moments, but I did want to apologize to you.”

  “To me?” Starbuck asked in surprise.

  Julia offered him a solemn look. “About the night at the hospital,” she explained.

  “I doubt if you have anything to apologize for,” Starbuck said.

  “I think we do,” Julia insisted. “You would have thought, would you not, that a mission to the poor would be accustomed to dealing with girls like your friend?”

  Starbuck smiled. “Sally’s not very poor.”

  Julia liked that remark and smiled back. “But she is your friend?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Julia turned back to the table and began sorting through the books as she spoke. “We are enjoined, are we not, to imitate Christ in all things? Yet on that night I think our Savior would have been more pleased with your behavior than with ours.”

  “Oh, no,” Starbuck said awkwardly.

  “I think so. Adam has forbidden me to mention that night ever again. Forbidden me, Mr. Starbuck!” She had plainly been piqued by the order. “Adam is very embarrassed by it. He is afraid of offending my mother, you see? More afraid of that, I think, than of offending me.” She wiped dust from the spine of a book. “Macauley’s Essays? I think not. Was your friend very hurt?”

  “Not for long.”

  “Baynes’s Christian Life. I doubt that would have been of much guidance to us that night. Look, the pages aren’t even cut, but even so it’s not of any value. Except for its spiritual advice, but I doubt the General would thank me for that.” She tossed the book back onto the table. “Would your friend be offended if I called on her?”

  The request startled Starbuck, but he managed to conceal his surprise. “I think she would be pleased, yes.”

  “I ventured to suggest as much to Adam, but he was very definitely not pleased at the idea. He informed me that pitch defiles, and I’m sure I was grateful for the information but I could not resist thinking that such pitch is more likely to defile a man than a woman. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I think that may well be true, Miss Gordon,” Starbuck said with a straight face.

  “Mother would disapprove if she thought I was contemplating such a visit, and her disapproval I can understand. But why should Adam mind so very much?”

  “Shouldn’t Caesar’s wife be above suspicion?”

  Julia laughed. She had a very quick laugh that animated her face and stung Starbuck’s heart. “You think Adam is Caesar?” she asked mockingly.

  “I think he wants what is best for you,” Starbuck said tactfully.

  “Do you think he knows?” Julia asked vehemently. “I’m sure I don’t know what’s best for me. I would like to be a nurse, but mother says that isn’t a suitable occupation and Adam agrees with her.” She threw a book onto the table, then seemed to regret the violence of the throw. “I am not entirely sure Adam knows what is best for himself,” Julia added, half to herself, then picked up a slim book bound in dark red leather. “Lambarde’s Eirenarcha. Over two hundred years old and well worth keeping. Do you think Adam knows what is best for me, Mr. Starbuck?”

  Starbuck was obscurely aware of deep, dark waters that might be best unplumbed. “I should hope he does, if you’re to marry.”

  “Are we to marry?” Her dark eyes were defiant. “Adam wants to wait.”

  “Till the war’s over?”

  Julia laughed, breaking the odd intimacy that had existed for a few seconds. “That’s what he says and I’m sure he must be right.” She blew dust off a book, peered at the title, and tossed it into one of the open crates. The gaslights suddenly dimmed, then brightened again. Julia grimaced. “They keep doing that. Is it a sign of civilization’s ending? Did I hear you tell Polly that you wanted to see Adam?”

  “Yes. Rather urgently.”

  “I wish I could help you. General Johnston demanded his presence and Adam flew to obey. But where General Johnston is, I cannot tell, though I suppose if you were to march toward the sound of the guns you would find him. Might I pass on a message? I’m sure he’ll be back in the city soon and if not, then I can always send him a letter.”

  Starbuck thought for a few seconds. He could not simply go to the army and search for Adam. His pass was only good for this one journey out of the city and the provosts would never let him roam the army’s back areas searching for a headquarters aide. He had planned on leaving a message here for Adam, but then he decided that the message might just as easily be delivered by Julia. “But not,” he begged her, “by letter.”

  “No?” Julia was intrigued.

  Letters, Starbuck knew, could be opened and read, and this message, with its implication of a traitorous correspondence, must not be read by men like Gillespie. “When you next see him,” he asked Julia, “would you tell him that he would be well advised to suspend his correspondence with my family?” He almost said “brother,” but decided he did not need to be specific. “And if he finds that advice mysterious, then I will explain it as soon as I can.”

  Julia gazed very gravely at Starbuck for a few seconds. “I find it mysterious,” she said after a while.

  “I fear it must remain a mystery.”

  Julia picked up a book and glanced at its spine. “Adam said you were in jail?”

  “I was released today.”

  “An innocent man.”

  “As driven snow.”

  “Really?” Julia laughed, evidently unable to be stern for long. “The newspaper said you took bribes. I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “I did, though. Everyone does.”

  Julia put the book down and gave Starbuck a speculative look. “You are at least honest about your dishonesty. But not about your friendships. Adam tells us we are not to talk to you or to your friend, and you say he is not to talk to your family? We are all to take vows of silence? Well, despite all, I shall talk to your friend Miss Royall. What would be the best time to call?”

  “Late morning, I think.”

  “And what name does she prefer?”

  “I suspect you had better ask for Miss Royall, though her real name is Sally Truslow.”

  “Truslow. With a W?” Julia wrote it down, then copied out the address on Franklin Street. She glanced at the clock again. “I must see you out before my father arrives and worries that I am being defiled by the touch of pitch. Maybe, one day, we shall have the pleasure of meeting again?”

  “I would like that, Miss Gordon.”

  In the hallway Starbuck pulled on
his coat. “You have the message, Miss Gordon?” he asked.

  “Adam is not to correspond with your family.”

  “And please don’t tell anyone else. Just Adam. And not by letter, please.”

  “I ceased needing to be told everything twice when I was an infant, Mr. Starbuck.”

  Starbuck smiled at the reproof. “My apologies, Miss Gordon. I’m used to dealing with men, not women.” With those words he left her smiling, and was smiling himself as he walked into the rain. He carried a memory of her face that was so strong that he almost walked into the path of a wagon carrying another fugitive’s furniture eastward. The Negro driving the team shouted a protest, then flicked his whip over the heads of the skittish horses. The wagon was heaped high with furniture that was half protected from the rain by an inadequate tarpaulin.

  Starbuck walked on from one pool of gaslight to another, assailed by a sense of sudden loss. He had been defiant to Julia, claiming that the South had yet to begin fighting, but the truth was surely otherwise. The war was over, the rebellion lost, the North triumphant, and Starbuck, his wagon hitched to a dying star, knew he had to turn his life about and strike off anew. He stopped to turn and stare at the Faulconer House. It was, he thought, a moment of farewell. A portion of his life that had begun with a friendship at Yale was ending in a night of panicked defeat, but at least in its ending Starbuck could afford a feeling of self-denying nobility. His friend had rejected him, but he had been true to his friend. He had delivered Adam the warning, and thus snatched his friend from the gallows at Camp Lee. Adam would survive, would marry, would doubtless prosper.